How strange to find my freeze dried, cynic heart
warmed by the presence of my fellow poets
converging on the Thames to lend support
to the idea that the poetic spirit
is expressed through so many fractured tongues.
The words fly over our heads but we hear it,
the underlying music, the slight drum
of metre. Later on, I spin off reams
of blank verse under late showing June sun
for everyday punters, who want their dreams
and anxieties welded into stanzas.
The game is simple, remember their names
and never pretend that you have the answers.